


roses filled with early snow

by bluebeholder



Series: One and the Same [20]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Fluff, Food, M/M, Minor Angst, Satinalia (Dragon Age), bring a snack, i am from the brian jacques school of feasts, it's f/m, minor original character ship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:41:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28244070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebeholder/pseuds/bluebeholder
Summary: Winter, 9:37 DragonSatinalia is a time for celebration, reflection, and love in all its forms. Fenris spends the holiday with Anders.
Relationships: Anders/Fenris (Dragon Age)
Series: One and the Same [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1654444
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	roses filled with early snow

**Author's Note:**

> Happy holidays, whatever you celebrate! Figured this was an appropriate time to post a Satinalia fic, you know?
> 
> One-line allusion to self-harm, when Anders and Fenris leave dinner.

Winter in Rivain is still too warm by the standards of the Marchers and Orlesians living here, who complain about the lack of seasonally-appropriate snow, but Fenris _so_ appreciates a winter with a pleasant temperature. He doesn’t have to suffer through shoes or heavy clothes. Yet the season still comes with its usual festivities: no one in the castle will let the holiday pass without celebration.

The first day of Umbralis brings with it all the trappings of Satinalia, from across the south of Thedas. Among the people here there are Orlesians, Kirkwallers, Fereldens, Antivans…and Fenris has lost track of the origins of the rest. The result is an explosion of custom and celebration, blending together into one joyous day.

Fenris had always avoided participation in Satinalia when he lived in Kirkwall, on the grounds of keeping from the public eye, but now he sees no reason to do so. However, if he is to truly participate, then he’ll need a mask of his own.

A few days before the holiday, he approaches the children for help, because if he’s being honest with himself Fenris feels more than a little embarrassed about his lack of knowledge in how to construct a mask and asking an adult for help would feel extremely awkward. Besides, considering that all four of the youngest mages have spent a month working on their masks, they can be considered authorities on the subject.

“You’ll have to decide what you want to be first,” Lea says seriously, kicking her feet against the legs of the bench she sits on. She won’t let him get away with not making a decision of his own, he’s sure.

“A…wolf?” Fenris hedges, glancing around the ‘schoolroom.’ It’s a space devoted to the hodgepodge education of the children, skills magical and mundane, as well as giving them a space for themselves to play. He looks particularly at the fanciful constructions that sit on a table by the window. He’s not sure what the red one is supposed to be, but it’s quite a sight all the same.

Nella, creator of the red mask, looks him up and down, unimpressed. “That’s not very creative,” she says.

“I am no artist,” Fenris says. “I do not have the skill for anything better.”

“We need fur, then,” Lea says. Many mages are still nervous around Fenris, but Lea has no qualms about giving him a small push toward the door. “Find something!”

With the ends of an old fur donated by Nella’s father (formerly a trader in such materials), some rough approximation of papier-mâché, and a few more sticks than Fenris is quite comfortable with having near his eyes, he manages to create a passable wolf-shaped mask. It’s recognizable as the animal it’s supposed to be, at least, and that counts for something. 

The day itself is a riot. Nearly everyone in the castle dons a mask of some sort for the day, leading in the morning to many mistaken identities and good-natured laughs. Even the Tranquil mages, who bear the madness with their usual stoicism, have been convinced by persistent celebrants to wear domino masks in the spirit of the day. The Dalish among them, who don’t celebrate Andrastian holidays in even a secular way and take the day for their own devices, are still invited to the evening’s feast.

In the company, there are several musicians. The mercenary Ostar is good with the shawm, the former merchant Bette and farmer Arnfried play fiddles, Malota plays the tambourine, and together they make for acceptable strolling players. Meanwhile, Oudin, Yvonne, and Barbigia, mages from wealthy families of Orlais and Antiva, are adept courtly dancers and teach the rest the steps. Wilhelma knows the round dances of the Anderfels, and gets one going whenever she hears a note of music.

As they have no town fool to proclaim as king for the day (though Fenris’ suggestion that they consider crowning _Anders_ as _town fool_ for the day was under serious consideration), the whole company takes up the job. All day, the four young children run in a pack, throwing eggshells filled with bits of colorful ribbon—prepared by their eldest mage Maris—at anyone they can reach. Researcher Halan turns out to have a gift for inventing limericks on the spot, and tosses them out to the embarrassment and delight of anyone in earshot.

Bertrand, ordinarily a serious and responsible young man, turns his hand to japery. Fenris sees more than one person be fooled by the coin Bertrand carefully nailed to a wooden threshold the night previously, stopping to try to pick it up in frustration. By watching Anders accept one of the pieces of “candied fruit” Bertrand offers, Fenris narrowly avoids eating a sugar-coated slice of onion. Several others, including Ornek, aren’t so lucky.

The merry chase Bertrand leads Ornek on after that, Bertrand howling in pretend terror and Ornek shouting threats through his own booming laughter, leaves the entire castle in stitches.

Fenris thinks the part where Bertrand, finally caught, gets dropped in the water trough is the funniest of all.

All in all, Satinalia has more revelry than Fenris has experienced in a long while. He spends the day wandering the castle hand in hand with Anders, who wears a simple mask of a cat. Many mages still hold Fenris at arm’s length, but behind their masks everyone seems comfortable and free. They talk and laugh with him, make toasts with him, just as they would anyone else.

Festivities halt for a while in the afternoon while many hands turn to the preparation of the evening’s feast. Fenris has just enough cooking skill to make a simple meal on the road, so he leaves the other dishes to more expert and more adventurous persons. He mostly fetches wood and water and, when pressed, minds the spit for the three chickens set to roast over an open fire.

With will, invention, and the skill of the few real cooks among them, they turn out a marvelous Satinalia feast, more lavish than anything Fenris has seen in a long while. There are the roast chickens, a sturgeon from the nearby river cooked in parsley and vinegar, venison—brought with good will to the feast by their resident Dalish hunter Shana—and a dish of hard-boiled eggs flavored with cloves. 

To fill out the table, there’s a vegetable stew of turnips and barley and celeriac, mushrooms and leeks colored with a few strands of saffron saved for the holiday, and plenty of bread, in both their everyday hearty style and a lighter sort made with better-ground flour than usual. For the bread, there’s butter _and_ the rare treat of dandelion jelly, which Namaril made from their mother’s recipe some months ago when dandelions proliferated around the castle’s kitchen garden.

For dessert, there are small dariolles, a custard dessert of the Marches that Fenris generally finds too rich, being full of minced dates, cream, marrow, and eggs. Someone made “snow,” cream beaten to a delicate froth and flavored with almond extract. _That_ is much more what Fenris prefers, especially after such a fine meal.

Finally, there’s sweet fruit stew, which Wilhelma made as she did at home in the Anderfels. “It’s been years since I had this,” Anders says, taking his portion with delight in his eyes. “When we were in Ferelden, I remember my mother making it.”

“It must be a fine thing, for you to remember it so well,” Fenris says, leaning sideways to steal a bite from Anders’ bowl. It _is_ delicious after all, the dried fruits Wilhelma has carefully hoarded for months rendered soft by hours of stewing, heavy with cinnamon and brandy.

He looks up to say something else only to see Anders suddenly looking distraught. “I’ll—be back in a moment,” Anders says. He rises swiftly and ducks out of the room, unnoticed in the sudden roar of approval as someone strikes up a holiday song.

Fenris makes his exit, too, after a few moments pass and Anders hasn’t returned. When the heavy door to the eating hall closes behind him, the sounds from within are completely muffled. The halls of the castle are utterly silent. It makes Fenris’ ears ring after the noise of the hall.

Outside, the hall, there’s a gallery running the length of this lower floor, a crumbling balustrade separating the paved walkway from the open courtyard. Anders stands by the balustrade, arms folded, looking out into the courtyard. Fenris joins him, leaning on the next nearest support pillar. The moonlight does very flattering things to Anders’ hair, turning it silver where it falls in a short tail against his shoulder, but it can’t quite hide the visible tear tracks on his cheeks.

“Memories are funny things,” he says after a moment.

“They are,” Fenris says. “What memory drove you from the hall?”

“I do my best not to think about life…before the Circle,” Anders says, returning his gaze to the courtyard. He dries his face with his sleeve. “That was one reminder too many, I suppose.”

Fenris reaches out to take Anders’ hand. “Do you wish to return to our room?”

“Very kind of you,” Anders murmurs, turning to Fenris and stepping closer. “But you were having a good time in there.”

“I will have a far poorer time, if I know you are pacing around our room alone and in pain,” Fenris says. His fingertips brush Anders’ wrist, and the faint scars there, meaningfully.

Anders smiles. He starts to say something, but is cut off by the door of the hall opening. “—go find them!” someone’s voice booms.

Impulsively, Fenris pulls Anders across the walkway in three quick steps, pulling them both into an alcove which was once a pantry, before the door disappeared to parts unknown. It’s dark enough that they can’t be seen. Anders lets out a quiet, breathless laugh as Fenris presses his finger to Anders’ lips. This is silly, childish behavior, but—well, they’re entitled to it tonight.

The door slams shut and Fenris hears two pairs of footsteps slowly coming to a halt. “I thought we’d never get out of there,” a breathless voice says, and Fenris recognizes Yvonne’s voice.

“Good of them to give us an excuse,” a second voice, much deeper, rumbles. Stas?

_Oh._

Yvonne sounds like she’s smiling. “I’ve been waiting all _day_ ,” she says.

“Likewise… _my lady_ ,” Stas says, and Yvonne _giggles_.

Anders leans close and whispers in Fenris’ ear, “Are they _courting_?”

“I sincerely regret our position right now,” Fenris whispers back.

Still, he can’t stifle a sense of fond amusement at the sudden silence that’s descended upon Stas and Yvonne. Such silences have fallen between Fenris and his own lover often enough that he can easily imagine the starry-eyed looks they must be exchanging. He smiles and lifts Anders’ hand to his lips to kiss, suddenly sentimental.

“You know,” Stas says soberly after a moment, “I didn’t think you’d really be interested.”

“Really?” Yvonne, in the entire time Fenris has been acquainted with her, has never sounded _nervous_ before.

There’s the sound of shuffling footsteps. “Well. I’m me, and you’re…you.”

“What in the world is that supposed to mean?”

“You’re…like something out of a poem,” Stas says. “One of those Orlesian ones, about noble ladies and courtly love. And…I’m no knight, you know?”

“Well, I’m no noble lady,” Yvonne says softly. “I’m a _mage_. I don’t count for anything.” At her words, Anders sighs and Fenris squeezes his hand tight.

Stas sounds alarmed. “You count for everything,” he says.

“And you certainly _look_ the part of a knight,” Yvonne says. “All that wonderful shining armor…”

There’s another silence that hints at soulful gazing. The image of the two shapes itself in Fenris’ mind: Stas, massive, seven feet tall with his horns cut off, looming over tiny Yvonne in her refined robes. It makes a very pleasant picture.

“We should reveal ourselves before we hear anything more private,” Fenris whispers.

Anders sounds like he’s smiling. “I agree,” he says, and pulls Fenris into a fierce kiss.

Fenris makes a sound as he’s hauled into it, a little alarmed, especially as one of Ander’s hands wanders into Fenris’ hair and the other starts pulling at his clothes, utterly disheveling him. Anders has him up on his tiptoes, forcing him to seize Anders’ shoulders for balance, and by the time Anders sets Fenris down he’s very dazed. Can’t even protest as Anders pulls him out into view.

Quite the picture _they_ must make, Fenris ravished and Anders smug as a cat. “If you two are looking for a quiet spot,” Anders drawls to a startled Yvonne and Stas, “that alcove right there is a _perfect_ one. Now, if you’ll excuse us…”

Yvonne bursts into nervous giggles as Anders drags Fenris away toward the flight of stairs that leads to their room. It takes Fenris a few moments to snap out of his startled daze, at which point he feels himself burn with embarrassment to the tips of his ears.

“Venhedis, mage, what was that?” he demands, pulling them to a halt on the stairs.

Anders laughs. “An excuse for _them_ not to be too embarrassed at having been overheard,” he says, “and a good excuse for _us_ not to have to go back to the hall.”

Fenris sighs. “Of course,” he says, but can’t keep sounding exasperated. He pushes past Anders to stand on the stair above him, so that he’s just slightly taller.

“Better?” Anders asks, looking up at him.

“ _Much_ ,” Fenris says, and kisses him soundly.

Down below, the party has spilled out into the courtyard again. People are drunk and singing, the music is raucous, and judging from the clapping and stamping a round dance has begun. It will wear on long into the night, Fenris is certain, but he does not plan to take part.

His celebration of the holiday with Anders will happen in private.

**Author's Note:**

> Snagged all the dishes here from medieval cookbooks, records of Tudor menus, and the recipes presented in _World of Thedas Vol. 2_. Some have been adapted to reflect the fact that very few people here are trained cooks, and that some of their options are limited by resources and location.
> 
> I really want to try the dariolles. The modernization of the recipe used butter instead of marrow, but I would 100% go for the marrow, just to see what the taste would be!


End file.
